


Winter — 2015

by trash_bat



Series: Years and Years [5]
Category: British Comedy RPF, Nathan Barley (TV) RPF
Genre: Emotions, Infidelity, Interlude, M/M, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21745870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/pseuds/trash_bat
Summary: An attempt, aborted.
Relationships: Charlie Brooker/Chris Morris
Series: Years and Years [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1436950
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	Winter — 2015

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/gifts).

He thought that he knew what it meant to be exhausted. Once that had meant insomnia, video games until the sun broke, working at a shop, brutal and eviscerating hangovers. Then it meant script meetings spent pissing about, revisions, shoots that went well past what was on the call sheets. Later it was him, all by himself, talking at a reflection like a madman, and fewer hangovers, shit sleep, and always moving on to the next thing, because you couldn't count, really, on anything for certain. 

A few years of relative quiet. New projects, new life. 

Then? Then he knew from tired. 

And how hard could it be, he'd reckoned: three episodes into twelve, one child into two? Four times as difficult, at a pinch? 

Exponentially worse, Charlie now knows. 

In a way, though, it diffuses the pressure. It's only television, isn't it? The worst that happens is he fails, and walks away with a production credit and a fat down payment on a house with a back garden. A proper one, she wants. Near her mum. 

He thought he knew exhaustion, and worry. Kids, though? You can't be tired when you've got kids. There isn't fucking time. 

It's good, though. Better than it's been since he can remember memories, and that's surely a sign that something's about to go crashingly, crushingly wrong. 

Turns out that the thing about to go wrong is Charlie. 

\---

The deal intimidated him, and the production schedule made him nearly shit himself morning, noon, and night, and through it all there's all this other shit to clean up, an endless fucking cycle of the stuff, and the bullshit that comes from having to do a promotional tour, to be the public face of the programme, and yet? 

It's exhilarating, and exciting, and all of a sudden? It's boring as shit. 

\--- 

His number hasn't changed and neither has his schedule. Charlie's phone is different, as is his furtiveness. Camped out in his office, her in the tiny bedroom shared with both the children. He's taking up too much space in this flat; they've put in a few offers, but nothing's come through yet. Another goddamn thing to worry about. 

\---

_Better to take care of it on your own_ Chris says, after Charlie had asked, and been rebuffed. _I can't always be there, you know. _

Charlie isn’t sure what Chris means, precisely. It's been ages since they'd done this and he's married, not dead, and it’s not at all about that, hardly even a little bit. Although, and he swallows around the gush of warm spit that floods his mouth, although if he had to pick a cock, he'd rather it be his. If it were up to him.

Which it isn’t. He knows Chris is packing, and he’s also pretty sure that Chris is hard, too, underneath his corduroys, and that if Charlie were to reach out for his flies, Chris wouldn’t stop him, wouldn’t bat his hand away. His eyes are dark and he seems keen. 

_That can’t be comfortable_ Chris says, and reaches down for Charlie’s erection. His mouth is so close, so goddamn close. He wants to feel the weight of it in his cheek, across his face. 

He shouldn't want this. To get knocked about and put away wet? He has a family, a home, people who love him. His traitorous brain supplies and _yet here you fucking are_.

Charlie blurts out _I need you to make me_ and Chris abruptly pulls away. 

_No_ Chris says, and cold ice runs up Charlie’s spine. _You came to me, Charlie. _

_Yeah, but — _

Chris backs away from the sofa, his arms extended in front of him. Charlie has to twist around to see him. His breath is coming heavy in his chest. _What exactly do you think this is? _

Charlie’s face burns. It’s an...arrangement, isn’t it? They have an...understanding? He’s come to see Chris, like he’s done in the past, and Chris humours him. When things get to be too much he can come over here and Chris will peel back his skin and excise whatever it is that is lodged inside. Chris is a constant. He is, Charlie realizes, _reliable._

_But_ he stammers _but I’m here_. Charlie balls his hands into fists because if something doesn’t happen, and fucking soon, he might actually cry.

Chris looks down the bridge of his nose at Charlie. _Why?_ he says, in a withering tone. He manages to sound both incredibly bored and monumentally ticked off.

His throat is scratchy but that’s not what’s keeping him from answering.

Chris waves a hand through the air. _I have things to do, too, I’ll have you know. You can’t possibly expect me to drop everything when you’ve got an itch, or have you really become that inconsiderate?_

_That’s not_ Charlie starts to say his eyes prickling _that’s not what I’m about._

The sneer he’s given as reply is even more devastating than the words. His eyes flick down to Charlie's groin. It took a while to get him there, but it got there eventually. He'd really like to deal with it. _And what do you expect me to do with that? _

Charlie chews on his cheek. His palms are sweating. _Nothing_ he says dully. _I don’t expect anything._

_Quite right_ Chris says, and he’s suddenly upbeat, almost jolly at the concession. He slaps Charlie on the shoulder. _Go home. To your family._

_Sure_ Charlie says. He swallows, tongue thick in his mouth. _Sorry to be a bother._

_Whatever_ Chris replies, like a fucking bored teenager.

_Can I use your toilet?_ Charlie asks, after he's pulled on jeans, trainers, his jumper. _Before I go? _

_Go right ahead_ he says. _It’s still in the same place._

Charlie’s dick is hard in his hand, an angry red like a baby's bottom. It seems a shame to waste it, but now isn't the time. 

_Come on_ he whispers to it. _Don’t be like this. _

He focuses on the walls, the grout between the blue tiles. A stream of urine hits the bowl and he sighs, shuddery, with relief. He’s washing his hands in the sink when the door opens. 

Chris walks straight for the toilet. 

He won’t look. He won’t look. 

His piss is loud against the basin. Age hasn’t affected that at all. His erections, Charlie thinks, are probably still massive and last for ages. 

He swallows a dry mouthful of air. He could turn round and shuffle over on his knees. Chris might change his mind yet again. It's been known to happen. It could still happen. 

_Are you planning on turning the tap off?_ The sound of Chris’s zipper, his shoes on the tile. 

Behind him, next to him. His head towering above Charlie’s in the mirror, Chris leans against him and shuts off the water. Charlie lets his eyes fall closed for a shuddery second. 

Chris is gone when he opens them. 

_Bye_ he says as he heads out the door. _And uh, thanks?_

Chris doesn't give him so much as a farewell nod. 

\---

His house is cold, the bed warm. The baby fusses in the night, and Charlie takes him into the front room and looks on Twitter until he finally, finally falls back asleep.


End file.
